The Boy Who Lived To Change My Mind
by Takk the Hideous New Girl
Summary: I've always said I'd never do a Harry/Draco story, and yet here I am doing one. So enjoy, people. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. Who Am I This Time?

26 October, 9:15 p.m.

The Slytherin Common Room

*This title was borrowed from a short story by Kurt Vonnegut, from his book Welcome To The Monkey House. You should read it. It's good.

Pansy was talking. Merlin, she was always bloody _talking._ Sometimes this didn't bother him-he'd simply tune her out, satisfying her need for attention with the occasional "yeah" or "right." Other times, her voice grated on his nerves, rubbed them raw, stretched them to the breaking point. Now happened to be one of those times.

Partially, he knew, it was the tense feeling that pervaded the room. The atmosphere in the common room drove him mad. All around, students were grouped into threes and fours, having nearly identical conversations. One person was talking-giving long, boastful monologues concerning their noble birth, their famous ancestors. Those clustered around him would nod, polite admiration written over their faces. But inside, they constantly reminded themselves that this person's stories meant nothing. Their nods did nothing but fulfill this person's pathetic demand for attention, until they could steal that attention for themselves. It was an act, every bit of it. Those monologues, those polite nods, those carefully controlled expressions, all of it. The Slytherin Common Room was a carefully structured image of perfection, polished by its inhabitants. There was a strict, painstakingly constructed code of conduct, and God help anyone who failed to abide by it.

In ths past, Draco hadn't been bothered by this. In fact, he'd thrived on it. It seemed to him a game of sorts, or a play. He had many different identities, and he'd loved sifting through them, a thousand times a day, to find the appropriate facade. He was an actor, a performer, perpetually onstage, lights shining constantly in his eyes. Each new situation mandated finding the right Draco. Each situation begged the question-Who am I this time? And dammit, he'd loved it all.

Now, however, he was growing weary of the constant charade. What had previously felt like a game now felt like a tired old routine, and as for his hundreds-thousands?-of Dracos, he hated them all. They were all him, but none of them were _him._ He could see through other peoples' facades at once; his internal Bullshit Detector went off every time they opened their stupid mouths. He no longer appreciated the careful craft of each new tall tale. They bored him to tears. He wanted more. What he wanted now was real, and if this bloody common room was the earth, then reality was beyond the farthest extremities of the universe.

"He's not _listening_ to me, is he?" came Pansy's voice from his left, bringing him sharply out of his thoughts.

"Oh, shut up, Pansy," drawled Blaise from across the table. "No one wants to listen to you, anyway." Inwardly, Draco groaned. He could muster false enthusiasm for Pansy's rants, but Blaise's long speeches regarding the ancestry of his mother's latest suitors gave him a strong desire to stab himself. Sighing, he glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. Yes, he could go to bed now without looking suspicious. He stood.

"I'm going to bed," he announced. "Night, everyone."

"Night, Draco," said Theo and Pansy together. He nodded slightly and exited the room, treading the familiar path to the dormitories. Mercifully, the circular room was empty.

Wondering vaguely where Vince and Greg had got to, he undressed and prepared for bed. He lay down, pulling the hangings shut, relishing in the peace and quiet of the empty room. It was a surprisingly short time before he fell asleep


	2. The Project

27 October, 8:45 a.m.

The Great Hall

The noise level at the Gryffindor table had been fairly normal when Harry, Ron, and Hermione had arrived in the Great Hall. However, it had risen steadily since then and was now nearly deafening. To anyone else, the incessant talk and laughter, held at altogether unnecessary volume, would have been utterly unbearable. The Gryffindors, however, wouldn't have had it any other way.

"What've we got this morning again?" asked Ron, through a large mouthful of bacon. Hermione gave him a disdainful look, and Harry fished inside his bag for his schedule.

"Potions," he said.

"How could you not know that?" Hermione demanded. Ron gave a great swallow and opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted as the bell sounded overhead. Harry stood.

"Let's go," he said, gathering up his belongings and leading the way out of the Hall. Ron and Hermione followed him across the entrance hall and down to the dungeons, bickering.

They arrived outside Slughorn's classroom and joined the small cueue already gathering in the corridor, waiting to be let into the classroom. At precisely nine o'clock, the door burst open.

"Come in, come in," boomed Slughorn genially. The class filed past him, but stopped short upon entering the classroom. Rather than the usual groups of four, the desks had been arranged into groups of two. Slughorn bustled past them to the front.

"Oh, yes," he said, noticing their confused expressions. "I've devised a little...Project, of sorts. You'll be working in pairs, and as you see, I've arranged the desks accordingly. I'll read off the pairs, shall I, and then you can sit down." There was a murmur of interest mingled with trepidation as members of different Houses cast shifty glances at one another. Slughorn extracted a bit of parchment from his pocket and began to read.

"Hermione Granger and Ernie McMillian." Hermione and Ernie looked at one another, shrugged, and sat.

"Ronald Weasley and Padma Patil." Harry bit back a laugh, recalling the disasterous Yule Ball two years ago. This project might turn out to be rather amusing, he thought. Slughorn continued to read off his pairs, until there were only four people standing: Harry, Terry Boot, Theo Nott, and Malfoy. Inwardly, Harry groaned. He had a good idea what was going to happen next.

Sure enough, Slughorn paired Terry with Nott.

"And that leaves you two, then," said Slughorn to Harry and Malfoy, who took their seats, careful not to make eye contact.

"Now," said Slughorn. "I'm going to explain what it is I want you to do, and I'd like one person from each pair to copy this down." He paused while students rummaged in their bags for quills and ink. Malfoy turned to Harry.

"Would you like to write, or shall I?" he said stiffly. Harry shrugged.

"You can, I suppose." Malfoy gave a brief nod and extracted quill, ink, and parchment from his bag.

Slughorn began explaining his project, but Harry found his attention wavering. Sighing slightly, he looked around the dungeon and bit back a laugh. Six people were paying rapt attention to Slughorn, and racing to copy down his every word. The other six, meanwhile, had tuned him out entirely.

Nearly a half-hour later, Slughorn finished his speech, and Draco mentally sighed with relief. The Potions master's smooth, deep voice always served to nearly put him to sleep, and it was extremely difficult to pay attention-doubly so with Potter beside him sighing and drumming his fingers on the desk. Besides, his hand was beginning to cramp. Sighing, he turned to face his partner.

"You weren't paying attention, were you?" he asked. Harry's first instinct was to retort snappishly, but something in Malfoy's tone stopped him. The question wasn't hostile; in fact, Malfoy sounded rather like Hermione after a History of Magic lesson. Besides, he hadn't been paying attention.

"Er-no," he admitted. Malfoy sighed, as though this were enormously painful.

"Look, Potter," he began. "I don't know how much you actually care about this, but I'm going to assume you care about your grades at least as much as I do. So I won't be a pain in the ass about this if you won't."

"Er, right," said Harry, taken aback. He'd expected to endure repeated insults, but instead Malfoy was attempting to bargain with him. "That sounds fair to me."

"Good. Now, do you have any clue at all what Slughorn was talking about, or have I got to explain it all to you?" Harry sighed, unable to help his annoyance. He couldn't believe he was being made to feel like an ignorant fool by Draco bloody Malfoy. Worse, the git was actually making him feel a bit guilty for not paying attention.

"Could you explain it?" he asked, momentarily hating himself. Malfoy gave another annoyed sigh.

"Yes, I can. It's fairly simple, actually. Slughorn wants us to pick a potion from this list, and research its history, effects, and other potions similar to it. Then he wants us to actually make it, and keep a journal while we do it, about our progress. And we've got until the end of term."

"Why so long?"

"Because," said Malfoy, with the air of explaining that one and one made two, "most of the potions take at least a month to make." Harry nodded vaguely, glancing at the parchment in Malfoy's pale hand. Realizing what Harry was looking at, Malfoy shoved it under Harry's nose.

"These are the potions we've got to choose from," he said, gesturing toward a list of about twenty potions in the middle of the page. Harry read through them silently, surprised by how neat Malfoy's handwriting was. However, this didn't help much, as he hadn't heard of most of the potions.

"Well, which one do you want?" he asked. Malfoy looked at him for a moment, then looked back at the list.

"These are all too easy," he said dismissively, gesturing toward most of the potions on the list. "And I reckon that one's impossible, it takes about six months to make."

"What about that one?" asked Harry, pointing to "wolfsbane potion." Malfoy waved a dismissive hand.

"Far too easy. Besides, as neither of us are werewolves, we wouldn't be able to test it."

"Oh."

"So, if we eliminate all those, it leaves us with Veritaserum, Amortentia, and Felix Felicis."

"I'm not doing a bloody love potion," said Harry flatly. "What about Veritaserum?"

"It's not very interesting."

"Felix Felicis, then?"

"Yes, I suppose so." Malfoy's last words were partially drowned by the bell.

"Listen," he said quickly. "We're going to need time outside of class to work on this. Can you meet me in the library at seven this evening?" Harry thought a moment. He didn't have Quiddich practice, but he'd intended to make a start on his Herbology essay. Well, he reasoned, he could do that later.

"Yes," he said after a moment. "I suppose so." Malfoy gave him a brief nod and departed the classroom. Amazed and slightly wrong-footed by the civility of this exchange, Harry caught up with Ron and Hermione, who were waiting just outside the classroom.

"Well, that was quite enjoyable, actually," said Hermione serenely.

"Speak for yourself," grumbled Ron. "How was it with Malfoy, Harry?" Harry frowned slightly.

"It wasn't as bad as I expected it to be," he said at length. "I reckon he cares enough about the project not to waste time fighting."

"Well, that's good," said Hermione vaguely, leading the way upstairs to Transfiguration.


	3. As Yet Untitled

27 October, 4:45 p.m.

Defense Against The Dark Arts Classroom

Draco stared at the book in front of him, eyes glazing over. Ordinarily he found it easy to pay attention in Defense Against The Dark Arts, but today Snape had simply told them to read a chapter on dementors and retired to his desk. Draco hated lessons such as these, because he could never bloody concentrate. Besides, Justin was sitting two rows in front of him and one row to the left, and that was just about all he could focus on.

They'd split up a week ago, and while Draco wasn't eager to get back together, he couldn't stop himself remembering Justin's soft, light brown hair, his sweet, brown eyes, his warm skin. He could still hear his voice, soft and sweet but simultaneously dark and mysterious. Most of all, Draco remembered what it was like to fall asleep with his head against Justin's chest, those Saturday nights in the Room of Requirement. It was maddening to think that that would never happen again.

"That's enough for today," said Snape, breaking into Draco's thoughts. "You all ought to have finished the chapter by now. I want three rolls of parchment on dementors, and I want them by Monday. Class dismissed." There was suddenly a great deal of noise as everyone began packing up their books and walking toward the door, chattering among themselves. Draco slammed his book shut, trying to ignore the flip in his stomach as Justin passed. He zipped his bag shut and wandered over to join Theo, who was standing above Pansy, arms folded, as she packed up her things.

"Merlin, Pansy," said Theo, clearly exasperated. "Hurry up already."

"Every time you say that, I'm going to move slower," she said crossly.

"Oh, for God's sake," muttered Draco, abandoning his friends and exiting the classroom.

"Where're you going?" demanded Theo from behind.

"The Common Room."

"What about dinner?"

"I'm not hungry," lied Draco, as his stomach twisted uncomfortably from lack of food. He'd skipped lunch, as was his usual custom, in order to finish his Transfiguration essay. However, today he'd had to skip breakfast to finish his Charms homework. Consequently, he was starving, but he knew he didn't have time to eat. He'd have to read the chapter on dementors which he'd neglected in class, and hopefully have time to make a start on Snape's essay before meeting Potter in the library. _And in the meantime_, said a nagging voice in the back of his head, _you've still got to mend the Vanishing Cabinet._ The Vanishing Cabinet. It was proving much more difficult to mend than he'd thought, and meanwhile his own nagging doubts were growing stronger, with the result that the time he spent in the Room of Hidden Things was becoming his own personal Hell.

He entered the Common Room, which to his relief was almost empty, and chose a table in the back corner of the room. He grudgingly extracted his Defense Against The Dark Arts book and began to read.

An hour and a half later, to his pleasant surprise, he'd read the chapter and written nearly two rolls of parchment. A glance at the clock told him it was nearly time to meet Potter. So, sighing, he rolled up his dementor essay, placed it and his book into his bag, and departed the Common Room for the library several floors above.

When Harry entered the library, Malfoy was already there, head bent over a large book, scribbling on a piece of parchment. Hearing Harry's approach, he held up one finger to let Harry know he'd be a moment. Shrugging, Harry seated himself as Malfoy finished writing-with his left hand, Harry noticed. He frowned.

"You're left-handed," he remarked. Malfoy's head snapped up.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nothing, I just hadn't noticed before."

"Well, I should think you'd have better things to do than stare at me in class," said Malfoy, with the barest trace of a smile. Harry stared at him, amazed. Malfoy was supposed to loathe him, and yet here he was, bloody _teasing_ him.

"You wanker," he said slowly, with a grin to show that he was joking. To his surprise, Malfoy actually laughed.

"Maybe, but not to your dreadful scarred mug," he said with a smirk. Now it was Harry's turn to laugh, earning him a reproachful glare from Madam Pince.

"Thanks a lot," he said. They smirked at one another for a moment before Malfoy stowed his homework in his bag.

"Let's get started," he said, "as I'm not sure how long this will take. The research might not take that long, but as the potion takes a month and a half, I think we should get started on it as soon as possible."

"Right," said Harry. "How do you want to split up the research?" Malfoy thought a moment.

"You do the history," he said slowly, "and I'll do the effects and similar potions. Is that all right?"

"Er-yeah, fine," he said, surprised and pleased that Malfoy was making an effort to get along.

"I've got these books, just to get started," said Malfoy, gesturing to a pile of about five large volumes on the chair to his right. "If we need more, we can always go get them." Harry bit back a laugh. Malfoy was reminding him distinctly of Hermione.

"I'm sure these'll be fine," he said.

"Good," said Malfoy. "I reckon you should use these," he added, passing Harry two of the books, "and I'll use these." Harry flipped open the first of the books Malfoy handed him, and mentally groaned. The print was so small he could scarcely make it out. But, he told himself, if Malfoy was going to go to these lengths to be civil, he would make an effort as well. So he found the chapter regarding Felix Felicis, took up his quill, and began to read without complaint.

They worked in silence for the next half-hour, each perusing their own books and making notes as they went. However, it was extremely dull work, and Harry found it difficult to concentrate. He found himself glancing up from his work at increasingly frequent intervals, as though resting himself before continuing his reading.

On one such occasion, Harry looked up for a bit longer than usual and noticed that while Malfoy's head was still bent over his book, he didn't appear to actually be reading. His hand, resting on the table beside the book and lightly clutching his quill, was shaking slightly. Further, Harry noticed that he looked exceptionally pale. He frowned.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He couldn't believe he was asking this question of Draco Malfoy, and was even more surprised to find that he actually cared about the answer. Malfoy looked up.

"I'm fine," he said shortly. "Why?"

"You're pale, and you're shaking."

"Like I said, Potter, I'm fine." Malfoy returned to his work, making it clear that he didn't wish to prolong the discussion. Harry, however, did not follow suit. Malfoy's shaking hands could easily be explained by nerves, but Harry didn't think his presence was terribly intimidating. With a bit more thought, Harry was able to devise another explanation.

"When was the last time you ate?" he asked. "I didn't see you at dinner." Malfoy looked up again, clearly annoyed at being disturbed.

"Potter," he said slowly. "Are you telling me you honestly make it a point to check and see if I'm there at meals?"

"You're avoiding the question."

"I'm not _avoiding_ the bloody question."

"Well, answer it, then. When did you last eat?" Draco stared at the other boy for a few moments, wondering why on earth Potter was asking him that, and why he was so insistant. To his complete surprise, he found himself giving an honest answer.

"Er...Yesterday morning," he said quietly. Harry stared.

"Merlin, Malfoy, why don't you eat?" Malfoy gave him a cold look.

"That," he said softly, "is none of your business, Potter." And he returned decisively to his book, closing the discussion so firmly that Harry couldn't bring himself to prolong it


	4. Nocturnal Reflections

27 October, 12:15 a.m.

The Slytherin Dormitory

Later that night, Draco lay awake, alternately thinking of Justin and going over the meeting with Potter in his head. In all, it had gone quite well, he thought. He was doing his best to be civil, and it was nice that Potter seemed to be following suit. Indeed, he was pleasantly surprised by Potter's effort. He had to admit he'd been worried; he cared a great deal about Potions, and everyone knew it wasn't the other boy's best subject.

This train of thought was abruptly derailed as an image of his ex-boyfriend came unbidden to his mind. Justin was laughing, his caramel-colored eyes narrowed slightly and sparkling in amusement. He seemed to be outside, for his hair glinted as though in sunlight. His lightly tanned skin shone. He was, in short, beautiful.

As Draco watched from somewhere above, Justin extended a hand, and Draco saw himself enter the picture. The two boys conversed for a few minutes, their lips moving but producing no sound. They moved closer to one another, hands touching, eyes sparkling, their smiles shy but eager. Their lips met.

The difference in their coloring was sharp and startling. Justin had often compared Draco's hair to moonlight, his eyes to pools under the night sky. This was the type of poetic description to which Justin was especially prone. Draco, however, had simply felt pale, washed-out, and insignificant next to Justin-and just about everyone else, for that matter-and failed to see any poetry in the matter.

It was then that Draco began to wonder why on earth he still thought so much about Justin. There wasn't any use spinning fantasies about the past, he told himself firmly. Their relationship was over, but damned if he could forget what it felt like to be hugged, kissed, loved by Justin. Cursing himself, he rolled over and returned to contemplating Potter.

This time, he found himself wondering about the second part of his exchange with Potter-Specifically, the other boy's questions as to his eating habits.

It had begun innocently enough, though admittedly Draco had been quite surprised when Potter had broken the long silence to ask whether he was all right. Well, he hadn't been. He'd felt light-headed, nauseous, and slightly feverish, as he always did after a day without eating. Which, he reflected, was becoming more and more frequent lately. In fact, that had been part of Justin's reason for ending their relationship.

_Don't think about that,_ he told himself firmly, but it was too late. He could vividly recall Justin's many comments-that he was paler, that he looked tired or ill, that he'd lost weight. Yes, he had lost weight. He'd spend most of the summer keeping to his room so as to avoid his aunt, forcing himself to subsist on perhaps two meals in three days, with the result that he'd had to shrink his clothes so that they fit him properly. But his own diet seemed the only thing within his control, and hunger was a small price to pay for the odd sense of empowerment that came from living on so little. He hadn't confessed this to anyone. Largely, he knew, it was because, deep down, he was ashamed. He'd been reduced over the summer to willfully starving himself, and this contrasted so sharply with his usual persona of status and power that he was loath to admit it.

He wondered what on earth had made him answer Potter's question honestly. He could still hear the other boy's voice in his head, strong and insistant: _Answer the question. When did you last eat?_ It was an incredibly invasive question, and ordinarily Draco might have hexed whatever poor bastard had the audacity to ask it. Besides that, it provided evidence, however slight, that might allow Potter to guess his secret. He couldn't allow that. Worse, Potter seemed to be well on his way to guessing. The boy's last question rang through Draco's mind, loud and threatening. _Merlin, Malfoy, why don't you eat?_ If he couldn't make Potter forget this exchange, he knew his secret was in jeaprody, and he certainly couldn't bear that.

These thoughts were soon obscured by another as he drifted off to sleep: god damn, he was hungry.

12:15 a.m., Gryffindor Dormitory

Seven stories above, Harry, too, lay awake, listening to his roommates' slow, peaceful breathing. Like his blond counterpart, he was analyzing this evening's meeting carefully.

It was definitely strange, he thought, that Malfoy was suddenly so willing to act civil. It hadn't escaped Harry's notice, either, that the former had seemed quite subdued, entirely without his usual swaggering confidence. Even more oddly, rather than exchanging insults as was their usual practice, they'd teased one another. They'd laughed. Malfoy's response to Harry's "wanker" comment had been surprisingly relaxed, funny, and-there was no other word for it-friendly. All this was a nice change, but nonetheless it was distinctly unsettling. Harry had thought he'd known his rival quite well, but now it was as though a stranger had drunk some Polyjuice Potion and taken his place.

In addition to his unexpected behavior, Harry had noticed that Malfoy looked thinner and, if it was possible, a bit paler. Although, piped up a voice in the back of his head, these changes certainly didn't hurt the other boy's appearance. Harry frowned. Where on earth had that come from?

However, he couldn't deny that the voice had a point. Though Malfoy had definitely lost weight, this seemed to accentuate his finey cut bone structure. He looked...lithe. Elegant. Besides this, his blond hair had darkened to the approximate hue of mid-afternoon sunlight. It was longer now, serving to soften his angular jawline, and he'd taken to mussing it stylishly rather than slicking it. The effect was the kind of carefree elegance that looked effortless but everyone knew was the product of hours of painstaking labor. Yes, concluded the voice, Draco Malfoy certainly looked quite good this year.

Harry glared at the ceiling, harnessing his wandering imagination and corraling it firmly back within his control. Stop it, he chastised himself. Dammit, Malfoy was the last person on earth he wanted to think about that way. So why was an image coming unbidden into his mind of Malfoy's face, alight with simple amusement rather than amused derision, that evening in the library? And why, he thought angrily, did he not banish the imagine this bloody instant?

Beside him, Ron gave a loud snore, and Harry froze as though afraid the former might read his mind. To his relief, however, no one stirred and the darkened room was soon silent once more. Harry sank back against his pillows, furious with himself for Malfoy's continued presence in his mind despite Harry's valiant efforts to evict him.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, attempting to clear his mind. However, he was just as unsuccessful now as he had been during his Occlemency lessons the previous year. Finally, he gave in. If the image of his arch enemy wanted to remain in his head all night, he thought furiously, so be it. But he didn't care how long Malfoy's face remained in his mind, dammit, it meant _nothing._

With this defiant thought, he turned over and drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.


	5. The Room of Requirement

3 November, 8:05 p.m.

The Library

**I do apologize for this chapter taking so long. But I hope you enjoy it anyway, and as always, review!**

Harry sprinted up the deserted corridors to the library, slowing only slightly as he entered the large, slightly musty room. It had been a week since Slughorn's assignment, and thus far Harry had been late for three of his five meetings with Malfoy. Spotting Malfoy at their usual table, he made his way over.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, once he'd caught his breath. Malfoy looked up from the parchment he was writing on.

"Oh, that's all right, Potter. After all, we can't expect someone of your status to be on time, now can we?" Malfoy's tone was sarcastic, but his eyes sparkled slightly and Harry could tell that the taunt was intended to be humorous rather than derisive.

"Shut up," he said, glancing at the bit of parchment in Malfoy's hand. Realizing what Harry was looking at, Malfoy quickly made to shove it out of sight. However, Harry was too quick for him. Before Malfoy had fully realized it, Harry had snatched the parchment from his hand and was turning it over to examine it.

Harry had assumed it was an essay, but he was wrong. It was a drawing, full of thin lines intersecting one another to form intricate patterns, throughout which several sphinxes, owls, and dragons were placed. Examining it for another minute, Harry realized that it was a maze, and a very elaborate one at that.

"Wow, Malfoy," he breathed.

"Give it back, Potter, I'm not joking." Harry looked up.

"This is brilliant," he said quietly. Malfoy stared at him for a few moments, as though trying to discern signs of insincerity. Evidently he detected none, for his expression softened considerably.

"Do you mean that?"

"Yeah, I do," said Harry, surprised. He hesitated a moment, wondering whether his next question would be well-recieved. "Er-Could I solve it? I mean...Is it a real maze?" Again, Malfoy studied him for a moment before answering.

"Yes, it is," he said finally. "That's the most difficult part, planning it out. It can take ages." Harry looked at the other boy, fascinated. He'd never have guessed Malfoy made a hobby of planning and sketching out elaborate mazes in his spare time.

"Why do you do it, then?" he asked. This time, Malfoy lowered his gaze to the tabletop, and Harry thought that perhaps he'd asked one question too many. He was about to apologize when Malfoy finally spoke, without looking up.

"If you must know," he said quietly, "it's sort of...Comforting. It's a kind of metaphor, like if I can plan out this maze, then it represents a problem, or a bad situation. And if I can solve it, then I can solve the problem or get myself out of the bad situation. Go ahead. Laugh."

"I'm not laughing," said Harry. "I was just surprised."

"What, that a git like me would be that attached to a stupid bit of parchment?"

"Look, I'm sorry, all right? You said it, I didn't." Malfoy sighed.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Let's start over, shall we? Pretend the maze never existed."

"All right," said Harry, slightly surprised. "Er...Sorry I'm late."

"That's all right. Like I said yesterday, I think we should start making the potion today. You said you knew a place we could do it?" Harry nodded, pleased that he could provide something useful.

"Yeah, I know the perfect place. Come with me," he said, standing. Malfoy followed suit, and Harry led the way out of the library.

The boys climbed four flights of stairs and traversed three secret passageways in silence, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

Harry was contemplating the exchange moments ago in the library. He hadn't meant to sound rude about the drawing, he'd honestly been surprised. When put so explicitly it sounded awful, but he'd never before considered that Malfoy might have feelings. And now here the git was drawing mazes to represent bad situations in his life.

Of course, this led Harry to wonder precisely to what bad situations Malfoy had been alluding. Could they concern the supposed mission from Voldemort, which Ron and Hermione had become so tired of hearing about lately?

Harry almost laughed out loud. Like Malfoy would ever tell him anything about that.

Draco, meanwhile, was idly wondering where they were going. He was on the point of asking when he began to recognize the route Potter was taking. He tensed slightly. No, he must be mistaken. It couldn't be _there_...Could it?

It could. Potter came to a halt facing a blank stretch of wall about halfway down a seventh floor corridor.

"Think about the perfect place for making the potion," Potter began. "And walk-"

"I know how to use the Room of Requirement," Draco interrupted. "Listen, Potter, can't we go somewhere else?"

"What's wrong with this?" Potter demanded, looking surprised. Draco sighed. He really didn't want to spend even more bloody time in the Room of Requirement. It was bad enough coming here to work on the cabinet; these visits were quite unpleasant in themselves, but besides that he couldn't enter the Room without thinking about Justin. It drove him mad.

On the other hand, he would spend a week in the Room of Requirement before admitting any of this to Potter.

"Nothing," he said quietly. "It's fine. Let's go." He turned to face the wall, walking back and forth in front of it three times while thinking _We need a place to brew our potion._ On his third pass, a door appeared in the previously blank wall. Wordlessly, Draco turned the handle and passed through the door, curious in spite of himself to see what the Room had conjured.

Entering the Room of Requirement, the boys stared in awe. It was a chamber a bit smaller than the average classroom, but with a high ceiling to rival the one in the Entrance Hall. Magnificent tapestries depicting the different phases of the moon covered the smooth, stone walls, and bookshelves carrying numerous volumes on potion-making lined the room. One of these also carried a solid gold cauldron, a set of platinum scales, and an abundant stock of potions ingredients. An enormous crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling on a gold chain so fine that it seemed impossible it didn't break. On one side of the room a fire crackled merrily in a large grate, changing color every few seconds. On the other a crystal fountain spouted multicolored water toward the ceiling. The floor beneath their feet shone and appeared to carry an extremely detailed model of the night sky.

"All I asked for was somewhere to make the potion," said Malfoy wonderingly, gazing up at the ceiling. Harry glanced at the floor.

"I could use this for astronomy, too," he remarked. Malfoy slowly approached the tapestry showing the full moon, which appeared to gleam as though the cloth were sewn with diamonds.

"This is beautiful," he whispered, reaching out to lightly touch the fabric. As his pale hand made contact, he gasped. "Feel this," he said, turning to face Harry. Surprised, Harry approached and took the tapestry between his fingers. Immediately, he understood Malfoy's amazement. The fabric was lighter and softer than air, and seemed simultaneously to flow through his fingers like water and resist his touch like stone. He turned to Malfoy to remark upon this, but as soon as his eyes met Malfoy's he found himself speechless. He couldn't remember what he was going to say. Malfoy's pale eyes absorbed the color of the fire in front of him, changing from blue to green to red to violet with the flames. The effect was both intriuging and rather frightening, particularly when the flames changed to red. After a moment, however, Malfoy turned his head slightly to the left, ruining the effect and allowing Harry to notice a tiny, faint scar on the other boy's right cheek, just above his jawline.

"It's amazing, isn't it?" said Malfoy quietly. It took Harry a moment to realize he meant the fabric.

"Er-Yeah," he said quickly. Malfoy seemed satisfied with this reply and turned away from the tapestry, this time giving Harry a view of his left cheek. Harry caught a fleeting glance of a small scar in precisely the same place as he'd noticed earlier. But he'd been looking at Malfoy's right cheek then, hadn't he? He frowned.

"Malfoy," he said slowly. The other boy turned toward his voice.

"Yes, Potter?"

"You...You've got the same scar on both of your cheeks." A shadow seemed to cross Malfoy's face, and he didn't speak for a few moments.

"My father did that," he said finally, so softly that Harry could barely make out his words. "I fell off my broom and cut my left cheek, and...And he cut my right, so that my face would still be symmetrical. I was six." Draco had no idea why he was telling Potter, of all people, something like this. He'd never told _anyone_ about this particular incident before. Hell, he'd lied to Justin when the latter questioned his identical scars. And yet here he was, relaying it to Harry bloody Potter.

Harry stared, appalled by what he heard. Yes, he'd grown up with the Dursleys, but they'd never willfully harmed him-unless, of course, brutally short haircuts and Dudley's old clothes counted as willful harm.

"You're joking."

"Well, Potter, you asked."

"I-Merlin, Malfoy, that's awful." Draco turned toward Potter's voice, surprised by how soft it was. His rival's face showed shock, mild horror, and-there was no other word for it-concern. That was unnerving. He wasn't sure how much he liked it.

"My question, Potter," he said, hoping to make Potter forget what he'd seen, "is why you've been staring at my cheeks." In spite of what Malfoy had just told him, Harry laughed.

"Shut up, Malfoy," he said.

"That's better," said Malfoy, a slight glimmer of a smile playing at his lips. "I hardly recognize your voice if you aren't telling me to shut up. Shall we get started, then?"

Simultaneously amused and slightly horrified by Malfoy's ealier revelation, Harry extracted his Potions book from his bag and flipped through it until he found the page regarding Felix Felicis. Malfoy stared at the heavily graffittied page, his expression initially rather annoyed. However, as his pale eyes scanned the content of the Prince's many notes, his face changed to surprised, then slightly awed.

"Wow," he said quietly, more to himself than to Harry. "That's right. I don't think I'd have thought of that." He looked up.

"Potter, where did you get this?" Harry hesitated, wondering whether he should tell the truth or not. However, after several moments he was unable to think of a good lie.

"It's the book Slughorn gave me that first day," he said. Frowning slightly, Malfoy began examining the other pages. After a minute, he looked up again.

"Who's the Half-Blood Prince?"

"I dunno," said Harry, shrugging.

"Half-Blood Pricne..." said Malfoy slowly, his expression thoughtful.

"You've heard of him?" said Harry hopefully.

"No," said Malfoy. "But it rings a sort of bell..." he trailed off, apparently lost in thought, reminding Harry forcefully of Hermione. "Anyway," he said after a moment, "we should get started. Read me the ingredients, will you, and I'll get what we need."

Harry took his book from Malfoy and began reading off the list, as the latter began gathering supplies from the shelves. They worked for nearly an hour, Malfoy doing most of the work while Harry read him the instructions. Harry was surprised by how smoothly it went; he'd expected Malfoy act snide or superior, but in fact he was actually quite pleasant. Harry was almost sorry when it came time to pack their things for the night. They transferred their potion to a flask, which had appeared spontaneously when they needed it, before leaving the Room of Requirement. Bidding one another good night, they headed off in opposite directions, each absorbed in his own thoughts, to their respective dormitories


End file.
